


if (touched by love's own secret)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Winterlock Exchange, impulsive Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds himself tending to Sherlock's wounds while said patient navigates an attempted apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if (touched by love's own secret)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> Written for the Winterlock Exchange, this piece was inspired by art from khorazir's [Thirty-Day OTP Challenge](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/tagged/30-day-otp-challenge).
> 
> Title from e.e. cummings.

John pushed his fingers through the blood-matted curls at Sherlock’s temple. Palpated the skin (Sherlock winced, jaw tense) for any undetected injury. Carefully reached into the sink basin for a clean flannel. With a resigned sigh and a shake of his head, John set to dabbing at the sanguine mess of Sherlock’s forehead and cheek. His left hand remained steady as he cradled the ridge of Sherlock’s jaw. He gathered the cloth in his hand, refolding to expose the unstained surfaces. Wiped along Sherlock’s neck.

“I’d wager this shirt is a lost cause,” he murmured, tipping Sherlock back to quell the flow of blood from his nostrils and lower lip.

“You underestimate my dry cleaner.”

John laughed — a brief burst of air — and adjusted the cotton buds causing the nasal effect in Sherlock’s otherwise mollified reply.

“Keep your head back— Thank you.” He released the plug in the basin, ringing out the flannel. With the tap running (steaming slightly) John allowed his attention to wander. Tongued at the dried blood at his mouth. Flexed his jaw. Nauseous guilt burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Shut up,” Sherlock wheezed. Cleared his throat. Resumed breathing through his mouth.

“Can’t help it.”

“You’re thinking you are somehow responsible for my current state of health.”

“Of course I am! If I had gone with you in the first place rather than being your backup for—”

“John, any and all possible contingencies—”

“You went in unarmed. Alone. Operating on a hunch.”

“My observations are never based solely in conjecture.”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with the warm flannel. Flaked away blood drying in the philtrum, Cupid’s bow, and creases of the lip. “That is a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

One eye swollen shut marred the look of scorn Sherlock directed at him. John rung out the flannel. Rewet. Grabbed the bar of soap from the dish. Lathered the flannel and gently bathed the impressive black eye forming.

“Shouldn’t you be applying ice to the affected area?” Sherlock flared his nostrils.

“Who is the medical professional here?” John absently checked the plugs of cotton. “Would you rather I leave you to your own devices and let this become infected? I think not. Now hold still.”

Blessedly, Sherlock went still. His breath whistled through his parched throat and between his chapped lips. John dabbed at the skin. Sherlock gave a weak smile. Curled his fingers more tightly around the cuff in his grasp. Tugged as a child might before asking for sweets before dinner. John thumbed the soft grain of stubble on the chin beneath his palm. Sherlock pulled John nearer, bloody mouths smearing against each other’s cheeks, lips too sore and nose too fractured to give a proper kiss.

“You—” John swallowed thickly. Voice hitched when Sherlock slid his fingers over John’s wrist. “You should be all right now. Bleeding at your hairline stopped. Head wounds bleed more easily due to vessels nearer the skin.”

Sherlock snorted. “You smell like a skip.”

“As if you smell much better!” John pushed away, careful not to jostle Sherlock lest he reopen dermal lacerations. “Covered in blood and grime. Motor oil. You smell like motor oil. Why do you smell like a rusted out car?”

“I texted you from the boot of an abandoned car.”

“Of course you did,” John sighed. Stood and looked down at Sherlock seated on the (closed) lid of the toilet: shoulders low, hair matted, collar bloodied, knees buckled together. He looked absent. “Washing up might make you more presentable.”

["It won’t happen again, John."](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/68406568917/it-wont-happen-again-john-yes-it-will)

Whatever lightness had managed to enter the bathroom with them was properly quashed. Sherlock gingerly twisted the cotton from his nose and sniffed. Coughed. John watched him (not meet his eye) unbutton his shirt and rolls his shoulders free. Violet bruises arced beneath his pectoral and between his ribs. Gooseflesh prickled up his bare arms and chest. John forced himself to avert his eyes from the way Sherlock’s nipples hardened to the concave bowl of his stomach. He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more.

"Yes, it will. You’re going to run off again on your own to prove you’re clever,” he said, taking note of the rueful smile flickering at the edges of that split-lipped mouth, “and I’m going to chase after you, hoping I won’t be too late to save your neck."

Sherlock reached out — hesitated — and pressed his face to the pliability of John’s stomach. Wrapped his arms around John’s waist.

"What, no reply from you, genius? That must be a first."

"My lips hurt when I talk."

"Of course they do." John cradled Sherlock against him.

He waited for Sherlock to withdraw. Minutes ticked by while Sherlock remained as firmly affixed to his middle. John ran a hand over Sherlock’s back and the worrisome prominence of his vertebrae through the skin. Mapped freckles and still healing scars and muscle-deep tension. Drew looping, whorling paths with his fingertips. Wrote their names and the names of their favourite restaurants and the titles of his blog entries and the names he liked to call Sherlock while in bed together.

“Really, John,” Sherlock scoffed (but John could see the blushing of his ears through the tangle of his unruly hair as he wrote “my love”).

“Up you get. There you go. Won’t be getting under the covers with you like this.”

“I could say the same of you,” Sherlock replied, thumbing John’s lip.

“But you won’t say it. Now get in.” John reached behind him for the shower curtain. Drew it aside to adjust the taps.

“Don’t let the water run.” Sherlock unbuckled the clasp of his belt with some difficulty. “Mrs Hudson told me off yesterday about wasting water.”

“Told you off? More like scolded you while you sulked about.”

“I do not sulk,” he said as he (attempted) to step out of his pants and trousers. Stumbled.

John caught Sherlock around the shoulders. Tested for signs of fever with the broad width of his palm. Held his thumb to the racing pulse in the carotid artery. Sherlock shied away, hands flapping. Lost his balance and clung to John. Bruised and naked skin paling quickly, he moved to duck into the shower.

“Black eye affecting your depth perception that much?” John kept a steady (careful) hold on Sherlock’s upper arm.

Stoic silence. Pointed glare directed at toes curling in the gathering water around the drain.

“Would you like me to leave so y—”

Without a word, Sherlock twisted within John’s grip. Pulled. John staggered forward (spray of the shower misting in his hair, dampening his shoulders) until his lips met Sherlock’s. Insistent and hungry. Two thoughts occurred to John simultaneously: one, a cramp was developing in the side of his neck and two, Sherlock was dripping onto the lino.

“Sherlock. Sher— I won’t leave. I—” Little more than a word in edgewise as Sherlock’s mouth trailed away from his face to suck at his neck. John bristled. “Are you trying to drive me mad?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Is it working?”

John laughed, a full-bodied sound of mirth echoing in their small downstairs bathroom with a leaky faucet, discoloured wallpaper near the door, and glorious acoustics. He dropped a parting kiss on Sherlock’s full lower lip.

“You finish showering. I’m off to bed.”

“Wait for me.”

Letting the door close behind him, steam fogging the already frosted glass, John paused to breathe in the room. What was once “Sherlock’s Room” became “Their Room” in a matter of months, the exact date John admittedly could not place. At one point, the downstairs bedroom stopped serving as a catch-all for clutter and began to function as a nightly bower. John collapsed on the mattress. Untucked his shirt and unbuttoned his jeans. Drew his knees up to remove his socks. Shed clothing until he crawled beneath the sheets in boxer shorts.

Soft light from street lamps filtered through the curtains. John yawned. Lulled to stillness by the sound of water running. Sherlock insisted he did not sing in the shower but John could hear faint French betraying his claims. Eventually French dwindled into Italian, which sent John to sleep. He awoke (harshly, breath stoppering in the back of his throat) to the bed jostling and a damp body wriggling. To his credit, Sherlock paused. Muttered an abrupt apology.

["You’re here."](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/66391672362/youre-here-im-here-and-i-intend-to-stay) John failed to hold back the sleep in his voice and in the sloppy smile pulling his mouth into love-sick shapes.

"I’m here.” Sherlock manoeuvred nearer. Wedged his thigh between John’s knees. Lay his head on John’s pillow until their noses were touching. “And I intend to stay."

"Good."

“You didn’t wait for me.”

John groaned and rolled into Sherlock. An arm looped over his side. Reciprocating the gesture in the bathroom, long fingers teasing out knots in his muscles. He rested his forehead in the dip of Sherlock’s breastbone. Breathed in the humidity of — ludicrously expensive — hair product, shaving lather, and soap.

“Believe me, I tried.” He shivered as fingers habitually moved to the raised scar tissue of his bullet wound.

“John.”

Again, levity settled around them as gravity replaced the mood. John felt the subtle pressure of uncertainty in Sherlock’s touch.

“I am sorry.”

“I know.” He ghosted his thumb over Sherlock’s hairline. Skin washed pink and clean.

John waited for Sherlock to continue. Could practically hear the monologue being prepared. He was left waiting. Granted a drowsy smudge of lips against forehead as Sherlock shifted to his stomach. Beneath hooded eyelids, John awaited sleep while counting iterations of the rise and fall in Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Of the soft brush of eyelashes against the pillowcase. Of feet kicking against the sheets. Of his own deep inhales and steady exhales.


End file.
